Into the Magic Night
by Ista
Summary: Two times Castiel saved Sam and Dean from various sleep monsters, and one time they saved him. Three-part fic. Dreams, nightmares, hurt/comfort, and tickling.
1. Domovoi

**Into the Magic Night**

 **Summary:** Two times Castiel saved Sam and Dean from various sleep monsters, and one time they saved him. Three-part fic. Dreams, nightmares, hurt/comfort, and tickling.

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own anything related to _Supernatural…_ darn.

 **Chapter One: Domovoi**

Dean is enjoying the best slice of apple pie ever.

The crust is golden and baked to perfection, not soggy on the bottom but holding the perfect combination of moisture and flakiness. The apple slices are fresh and sweet, perfumed with cinnamon and nutmeg; they retain the smallest amount of crunch.

Dean is so engrossed in devouring the slice of pie that he almost forgets about the hands working their way through his hair in a delicious rotation, like a master masseuse.

"How old are you?" comes a soft purr in his ear.

"Twenty one," he says. Through a gigantic mouthful of pie, his response sounds like, "Enny wah."

The waitress titters behind him. Her hands are now working downwards, kneading his shoulders. He glances at her hands and notices her nails coated with chipped aquamarine polish.

"You're cute."

Dean would blush if he wasn't the only customer in the diner and if his cheeks weren't stuffed with heavenly dessert. Instead, he feels a modicum of pride and something else he can't quite place.

"So're you," he mumbles, although it's a lie. He's been so tired from driving to rendezvous with John and Sammy after his latest solo hunt that he can't even remember placing an order, not to mention the flirtatious woman running her hands across his body.

"I get off in two hours. You wanna come back and pick me up?"

Dean swallows back a surprised cough. Remnants of pastry catch in his throat and he coughs in earnest. She immediately thumps him on the back and presses a hand to his breastbone, as if that would help. The hunter's coughing abates, and he spins around on his stool at the counter, examining the waitress through bleary eyes.

She's a goddess. Blonde hair, pink lips, wide smile. Her aquamarine uniform with white lace matches the color on her nails.

"Uh…Y-yeah, sure!" Dean stutters. He isn't used to being on the other end of the pick-up routine, and it's shocked him. In a good way, he admits. But, still—he can't believe his luck.

In the back of his mind, he hears a little voice—an annoying, saintly voice saying: _You need to get back to dad and Sammy and make sure they're not killing each other._

But the smile of the waitress and the memory of her hands through his hair is enough to stop his guilty conscience cold.

"Great!" She beams. Her name tag reads BETTIE.

"I—I'm Dean," he says, reaching out a hand to shake and instantly feeling like a dork.

 _Since when did you start acting like Sam?_

She giggles, her voice full of bubbles. "I know that."

Dean gapes slightly. "You do?"

"You told me when you came in."

Another detail he conveniently forgot.

 _No problem. Just exit gracefully, go back to the motel, take a cold shower, and get ready for your date._

"Sorry—must've been driving too long," Dean says, guilty for the excuse, but it's true enough. He smiles dopily. "Getting tired."

"Well, then I'll just have to wake you up," Betty says with a wink and removes his empty plate. "Won't I?"

Dean leans in closer to her, his heart hammering in his chest, but she turns away at the last moment. He gets a strong whiff of…. mildew? Dean shakes his head. Must be from the linoleum crumbling away at his feet. For a place that makes world-class pies, it could sure use a remodel.

"See you in a few hours," Dean says and leaves a hefty tip.

Then he's in the Impala, and he's blasting tunes. All of his favorites come on the radio—AC/DC, Bon Jovi, Metallica, Bob Seger. It's Dean's greatest hits.

The summer night is comfortably warm, and he rolls the driver's window down, feeling the cool breeze run through his hair as he takes a shortcut to the motel via a rural highway.

He finds himself singing at the top of his lungs as the sun goes down because Dean Winchester is 21, and he's just eaten the best pie in his life, and he's about to go on a date with a hot waitress, and he's about to hit a guy with his car—

"Oh-SHIT!"

The hunter slams Baby's breaks—wincing at the hellish screeches they emit, and the figure directly in front of him gets an unwanted close-up.

The car stops inches from contact.

In the dusky twilight, Dean's heart slamming in his ribcage, he views the dark-haired man in a khaki trench coat, and the other man views him. The stranger's face is expressionless.

Dean pants heavily, eyes wide with disbelief.

"Jesus!" he gasps to himself. Then, to the man: "Are you okay? Did I hit you…?"

His voice dies away as the man remains motionless, not breaking eye contact with him. Dean focuses on the other man's eyes now—bright blue, almost glowing in the filtered light. They match the color of his tie.

Anger overtakes Dean suddenly. "What the HELL, man?! Are you NUTS?! I could have KILLED you! And you just popped outta NOWHERE!"

Emitting several expletives, Dean inadvertently slams his hand against the windshield, and his horn honks, making him jump with the sound. But the man in the trench coat remains stock still, as if observing him.

Dean's not taking any chances. He feels the kiss of cold metal underneath his jacket, and he will use the gun if necessary. Still cursing under his breath, he's about to leap out of the Chevy and forcibly _remove_ this weirdo from in front of his beloved car when Blue-Tie opens up the passenger door and gets in.

"What the—" Dean is completely flabbergasted. "GET OUT OF MY CAR!"

"You might want to pull over," the man says in a gruff yet quiet voice. His hands are folded in his lap, and he's staring straight ahead.

Dean realizes this guy might not be playing with a full deck. Still, he's got a date, and the clock is ticking. So he tactfully lowers his voice and tries a different approach.

"Listen, buddy, I've got a _gun._ And this is my _car._ I'm asking you nicely to _step out_ of my vehicle before I call the _police._ "

Trench Coat slowly turns in his seat to face the hunter and says again in an even tone: "Dean, we need to talk."

Dean finds his jaw drop for the second time that day. _I'm hallucinating. Yep—that's it. Just need to go home and take a cold shower. Get some coffee…_

"How do you know my name? Who _are_ you?" Dean feels for the weapon along his side, ready to grab it any second.

The dark-haired man seems to collect his thoughts and then looks toward the horizon and the sun's fading light.

"We don't have much time left. My name is Castiel, and I'm here to tell you you're in great danger."

Dean's bizarre-o-meter is flashing on red alert at this point.

"Listen, man—I'm not sure what kind of name _Castiel_ is, but I know that if you won't get outta my car, I'm gonna have to take you to the nearest hospital." _Or insane asylum,_ he thinks.

Dean pauses for a moment, _willing_ for trench coat to smoothly slide out of his car and get going, but Blue-Eyes doesn't budge.

"All right," Dean says, and starts up the car again, driving along down the highway. He's got a priority in mind, after all: date night. And the clock is ticking. He squirms in his seat as a tightening around his abdomen makes him suddenly short of breath. The feeling passes quickly, and Dean thinks: _Maybe that pie didn't set well._

He chances a glance at the stranger next to him, about to remind Blue Tie to buckle up, but the dark-haired man has already reached and secured the seatbelt around his waist, as if he's done it dozens of times before.

"So I'm in danger, huh?" Dean can't believe he's resorted to small talk, but the silence is making him uncomfortable.

A pause, then: "I know you don't believe me. All I can say is that I know almost everything about you. Or…I _will_ know everything."

Dean snorts. "Yeah, that's not creepy at all."

"I know that your name is Dean Winchester and that you're a hunter."

Dean shoots back, "You could have gotten that info from anywhere."

"I know you lost your mother, Mary, when you were only four. There was a fire. I know you live with your father, John, and your brother, Sam. Sam wants to go to Stanford and attend law school. I know that you care more about your brother than anything else in the world, and that you would do anything for him."

Alone on the highway, Dean slows to a stop. His heart is beating faster, the compressions on his chest not helping to calm his breathing. He tries to hide his trembling hands by moving them from the wheel to fists he waves in the air.

"So I'm supposed to believe you're my guardian angel?"

Castiel looks out the passenger window, but Dean can spy the ghost of a smile on his face.

"You could say that, yes."

Dean presses down on the gas pedal, and Baby revs away.

* * *

Dean is pretty sure letting Blue-Eyes into his meticulously warded motel room isn't the brightest thing he's ever done, but it's definitely not the stupidest. By the time he's pulled the Impala up to the curb of the parking space, his chest feels tighter, and he's starting to wheeze like a rusty squeezebox.

Nerves? That's nearly impossible.

"So how come… you know…everything about me?" Dean pants as if he's just climbed Mt. Everest, and his vision spins slightly as he gets out of the car. Strangely enough, an arm braces his shoulder and guides him away from Baby. It takes Dean a second too late to realize it's the hitchhiker.

"There isn't time," the man says hastily but not unkindly. Behind them, the sun sets in deep hues of orange and fuchsia. Dean can barely see straight as his chest compresses painfully, and he gasps.

"Cas…" Dean croaks out, stumbling.

The man's arms never leave his shoulders. And, for a little dude, he's surprisingly strong. In fact, it almost seems to take him no effort at all to swipe the motel key from Dean's weak grasp, unlock the door, and haul his wheezing ass inside.

Castiel takes him to the single bed in the barely-used, flea-infested motel room and flicks open the blinds on the windows, eyeing the sunset like a tide coming in too quickly. Then he stocks back to Dean and kneels beside him.

"Dean—you thought you destroyed that Domovoi, but she's still alive, and she's going to kill you. In fact, she's killing you right now."

Dean almost laughs, but his ribs feel like they might crack with the unknown pressure, so he forgoes the chuckle fest. "What are you _talking_ about?"

Castiel's eyes glow eerily in the dim light. His expression is grim. "Concentrate on my words, Dean. You're dreaming. This—all of this—is a dream. You're currently lying in a motel room exactly like this one, but the Domovoi is crushing the life out of you." He takes a breath. "You know they like to kill their prey slowly."

"This is…just _crazy_." Dean tries to protest, but another wave presses against his abdomen, and he can't hold back a whimper of pain this time. Darkness briefly washes over him, but a firm hand squeezing his shoulder draws him back.

"Cas…" he croaks. He's not sure if the man approves of this spontaneously discovered nickname, but it sounds right to Dean in his muddled mind. "This…hard for… me to believe…And I gotta…date…in an hour…"

"The monster was the woman in the diner, remember?" Castiel says softly, patiently, although his fingers are twitching on Dean's shoulder, revealing an underlying fear.

Dean feels as if he's sinking into the mattress.

The woman. The chipped nail polish, the blonde hair, the strong odor of mildew…

And everything clicks.

"Bettie Turnbull," he mumbles. "She drowned—"

"A year ago," Castiel finishes for him.

"I thought I'd burned her bones for good."

"A Domovoi is a kind of super ghost," says Castiel. "Once the being has its sights on a victim, its spirit stays alive and attaches to him. Bones or no bones."

The thought sends a shiver down Dean's spine, and he can't stop shaking.

"S-so…How do I kill it?"

 _Please let me be able to kill it._

Castiel pauses, and then a soft, barely-there smile breaks across his face. "You wake up!"

Dean's eyes roll, the pressure increasing again.

"And…how do we…do _that_?" Dean gasps. Whether this dude in front of him is an angel or not, he sure takes a long time to get to the freaking _point_.

The hunter groans and doesn't even notice that Castiel has moved farther back on the bed and is currently removing Dean's right boot.

"Elephants…" Dean wheezes.

Castiel doesn't look up from unlacing the shoe. "Hmm?"

"Elephants…on…my chest." Then Dean realizes what the other man is doing. "What are you…? _HEY!"_

Castiel removes his mangy, wool-knit, not-sure-the-last-time-it-was-washed sock and begins to give him a foot massage. Or something.

Dean's eyes go wide.

Things have definitely gotten weird.

Dean attempts to lunge forward only to cry out in pain.

"What the _hell_ are you _doing,_ man?!" Dean roars. He's aware that he's beginning to hyperventilate, but it seems to be a logical outcome when one's oxygen supply runs out.

Castiel continues massaging the foot with a focus found only in air traffic controllers and cake decorators.

"The only way to make you wake up is to get you to move your toes."

Dean whimpers. He can't really believe that _this_ is the way his night has ended. Complete 180.

"That's…ridiculous!" he bursts out. "I can move my own damn _feet_!"

The angel releases Dean's foot only for it to remain on the bed, unmoving, a footsicle. Dean sticks his tongue out, but no matter how hard he tries to waggle a single toe—any toe—the foot stays still, as if the signal from his brain isn't reaching his lower half.

Dean realizes they might have a problem.

"Ah—I was afraid of this," Cas says quietly. "Achieving physical movement while in REM sleep is very difficult. It's not something most people can accomplish unless they're an expert on lucid dreaming."

"So _what do we do?!_ " It's full-on panic mode now. No going back. Breathing comes in short bursts, and Dean's darkening vision begins sending him sparks of bright color. Like the Fourth of July, apple pie, and—

"DEAN!"

Someone is shaking his shoulders, and Dean's eyes flash open.

"I'm…here," he pants. "I think." Dean licks his lips. "Cas… you…gotta…help me."

The angel in a trench coat sinks back on the bed and pauses, his eyes searching far away, his mouth set in a firm line.

"I know of no other method," says Castiel at last, as if he's just skimmed through all the angelic encyclopedias and still can't find enough information to write a decent report. "What would make your feet _move_?"

Dean almost blurts out "a rib-crushing Domovoi," but can't breathe enough air to make terrible jokes.

 _Things that would make my feet move…_

 _Square dancing. A pint of Jack Daniels. Waking up to "Heat of the Moment." Chasing after a ghoul. Being_ chased _by a ghoul. Chasing Sammy for trying to drive Baby._

 _Sammy. Baby. Sammy._

Then it comes to him.

"Tickling."

His mouth snaps shut as soon as he says it because he _can't believe_ he's just said it. But Castiel's blue eyes widen, and he leans forward, interested, so Dean can't take it back.

 _God help me._

"Explain," Cas says.

Dean considers what will happen if he _doesn't_ explain. Death versus being tickled by another dude. A weird little dude in a trench coat who thinks he's an angel.

 _This night was supposed to be_ so different.

"People—umm—do it for fun. To each other. To make the other person laugh. Like on your ribs or kneecaps."

Castiel remains stone faced, and Dean knows he's not getting it. The older Winchester brother sighs and thinks: _I can't believe I'm doing this_.

Then he reaches forward and grabs one of Castiel's hands, tickling his palm.

Dean lies back, out of breath and waiting for a reaction, but the angel just stares at his own palm, a puzzled expression on his face.

"I don't understand."

Dean groans. "Not everyone is ticklish. But that's the movement. Sam…used to…tickle me on my feet…when we were little… He would do it…until I had tears streaming down my face."

The pressure on his chest increases even more until he feels that his ribs _will_ crack, and Dean let's out a rasping moan. Castiel puts a hand on his shoulder, his eyes brimming with concern.

"Cas… Do it."

The angel wordlessly moves to the end of the bed and begins running his fingers along Dean's bare foot in a similar motion the Winchester had demonstrated before.

Dean can only focus on the crushing pain at first, but then he begins to feel the touch on the pad of his foot—a light, airy, soft stroke that seems to float over his limb, back and forth relentlessly.

Dean twitches, gasps…and begins to laugh.

And his toes wiggle.

In an instant, Castiel's form vanishes and is replaced by the figure of Bettie Turnbull. Blonde hair spills into his face, and aquamarine chipped nails scratch his neck. Her knees press into his chest, and the smell of damp and mildew rolls off her body in funky waves. Her flesh is grey and clammy to the touch as Dean reaches up to push her away.

That's when her head jerks up directly in front of his face, and he stares into the eyeless sockets of the Domovoi. Grey, wrinkled skin, rotting brown teeth, and a nose that is falling off causes him to scream, which is quickly drowned out by the piercing screech of the creature on his chest.

Still in shock, Dean feels paralyzed to react, but he doesn't have to. Within seconds, the monstrous Domovoi shrivels like a drying flower and evaporates into thin air, leaving behind nothing but the echo of her wail and a lingering smell of mold.

Dean lies still for a few minutes, catching his breath and checking for broken bones. When he's confident that he's not received permanent damage, he lunges for the hunting knife resting on the bedside table and clutches it like a teddy bear. But his instincts tell him not to worry. After a few more minutes, Dean relaxes. The night is quiet; the Domovoi is dead.

The older Winchester struggles to remember what happened immediately before wakening. He had been dreaming about a man in a trench coat, and, somehow, this man helped him wake up. But the stranger's face is already becoming hazy in his memory, the details of his dream fading like most dreams do in the hours and days that follow.

Dean rises stiffly from the bed, his muscles aching and back popping, to get a glass of water (or bottle of whiskey—whichever he finds first) and pauses. Something glimmering on the foot of his bed catches his eye. He holds the hunting knife in an even grip, fearing some remnant left from the Domovoi, but those worries vanish when he actually sees what it is.

It is a black feather, smooth and shiny and slightly larger than a raven's.

Curious, Dean picks it up and rubs it across his chin like he used to when he was a kid and didn't care about bird germs. Its touch is pillow-soft and playful, conjuring up memories of simpler times before the endless chase that became his life, before the hunting.

Dean Winchester puts the feather in his jacket pocket and walks to the bathroom to get a cup of water from the sink. He curses softly as soon as he steps onto the tiled floor and hops from foot to foot before dashing back to his bed and his duffel bag of clothes.

The tile floor had been _cold_ , and Dean hadn't realized he was barefoot.

TBC

 **A/N:** I'd gotten the idea for this fic a loooong time ago and recently thought of a way to tie it into a three-part story that all revolves around sleep monsters and Castiel-related hurt/comfort. This is going to be so. Much. Fun.

Next part: Cas saves a very young Sam from a particularly nasty sleep creature that lives in the forest.

Hope you enjoyed the first part! Let me know what you think!

~Ista ^_^


	2. Batibat

**Into the Magic Night**

 **Chapter Two: Batibat**

Sam never should have left the car.

Because it's getting dark, and he can't find Dad or Dean anywhere, and he's lost, and he's hungry, and he's tired, and there are _monsters_ in these woods.

He knows there are monsters in the woods because that's why they traveled all the way to Oregon—to hunt the monsters that had started popping up near forests that had recently been cut down.

* * *

Earlier that day, Dean told him something about the monsters Dad was going to hunt.

"They're, like, giant _bats_ ," Dean had said in a whisper while Dad was ordering at the McDonald's drive thru.

Dad had dropped him and Dean off at the nearest public library while he scoped out the area and did some "research." Bored to death in a building full of dusty tomes, Dean wandered off to the sections with comics and picture books, and Sam decided to do his _own_ research.

He found the call number for books on bats and pulled a pile from the shelves large enough that he could barely see over the top of them. He wobbled and teetered his way over to a study table and began to pore through the lore.

They were mostly old volumes of _National Geographic,_ but they were extremely informative and full of charts and diagrams. Sam's eyes grew wide as he examined the various lower classifications, from the cute flying foxes to the insidious Nycteridae, the curled nose of the Microbat, and the downright terrifying Megabat, which could probably swallow Sam whole.

Yet, as interesting as the articles on bats were, Sam could find absolutely no information on _supernatural_ bat creatures.

Unless….

 _Unless dad is hunting a vampire,_ Sam thought. Which was entirely possible.

Later, while Sam and Dean were waiting for their dad to pick them up (he was already running a half hour late, and Dean was complaining about starving his toenails off) the younger Winchester asked his brother if their dad was hunting a vampire.

Dean's twelve year-old face grew stoic, and he took Sam's question seriously by not answering right away. "I don't think so, Sammy. He woulda told us."

Sam sighed, not even bothering to correct Dean on the usage of his nickname. Instead, he sat on a nearby bench and spent ten minutes kicking the gravel around underneath his feet. He looked longingly back at the sandstone building and wished he could have checked out a few books. It was probably going to be a long night while Dad was out hunting, and it would have been nice to get new reading material.

"Gotcha something," Dean said suddenly.

Sam looked up, and his brother pulled out a rolled-up magazine from his jacket. On the cover was a giant color photo of a wolf howling at a full moon. It was a nature magazine for kids—the ones that had fun facts and tons of pictures and crossword puzzles in the back. Sam frequently begged his dad to pick them up at a gas station while they were traveling.

"Did you _steal_ that?" Sam said, his voice almost a squeak.

Dean punched him lightly in the shoulder. "Nah—I'm not _that_ naughty." He smiled one of those pure, honest Dean-smiles. "They were getting rid of a bunch of different magazines, and I asked the librarian if I could have it."

Sam took the magazine reverently, and said, "Thanks."

Dean ruffled a hand through his hair, and Sam swatted him away, though he was grinning while he did it.

* * *

Sam can feel his heart beating against that same magazine, folded and pressed in the front pocket of his jacket.

The trees surrounding him murmur to each other—swaying with the gentle breeze. In the dark grey light, they are giants—cloaked in robes of myrtle green.

"DAD! DEAN!" Sam screams again, although his voice is hoarse by now. His pitiful cries are swallowed by the forest and the growing chill of the night. There is only himself and the trees and the void of insects chirping, owls hooting. Night noises. Sam hears a rustle at his feet, and he jumps.

He presses his back against a sturdy trunk and takes a deep breath.

 _Calm down. Remember what Dad taught you. Re-trace your steps. Look for signs of life, of light. Call for help._

But it's too dark now to see his steps, and he doesn't have a flashlight. Sam knows he's messed up. He's messed up big time. Because what if Dad and Dean finished the hunt already? What if they had returned to the Impala only to find it empty? He might have put their lives in greater danger.

But what if the hunt _didn't_ go well? The only reason Sam had gone off to look for them in the first place was that they were over an hour late.

 _Stop walking_ , Sam thinks to himself. _Stay in one place._ _You'll have a better chance of getting found._

But it's hard not to keep moving in this constantly shifting environment. The young Winchester imagines giant bats with razor-sharp teeth hanging from limbs above each tree he passes, and he stumbles along at a faster clip. However, his feet eventually become sore, and he's hungry and thirsty. Sam forces himself to stop and sit with his back to a tree. Just beyond where he sits is another small clearing, one of several he has passed tonight. When there was still light, Sam had shivered to see the stumps of deforestation: skeleton trees, tangled sticks, piles of twigs like abandoned bones.

Sam shivers as the temperature drops, and he zips up his thin jacket all the way to his neck, stuffing his hands into his armpits, and closing his eyes. He tries not to think about the cold, or how scared he is, or where his dad and brother might be.

 _They're okay. Dad would never let anything happen to Dean._

Despite the dark, Sam eventually steadies his breathing. Exhaustion creeps over him, and he rests his head against the trunk of the tree. Closing his eyes, Sam thinks he might sleep for a little while—

With sleep comes darkness, a sudden weight on his chest, and the screech of a giant creature. Sam can't make out the figure completely, but he knows the shape of a human body, naked, bulbous and decaying—rotting flesh, purple lips, and black eyes.

" _Sam!"_

A tug on his collar, and Sam is literally jerked from his doze. He jumps in shock, knocking his head against the tree painfully. Rubbing his noggin, Sam struggles to make out the figure next to him in the darkness.

"Dad?"

"No…"

Sam scrambles to his feet, hands out in a defensive position, ready to run or fight. The voice is definitely not Dad's. It's much deeper and gravelly.

"Who are you? Where's Dad?!"

There's a bright glow, and light is suddenly pouring out of a palm belonging to the figure in front of him. Sam puts his hands before his face, squinting in the bright light until his eyes adjust. When they do, he lowers his hands to view a dark-haired man wearing a light, tan-colored coat and a blue tie. He looks like a businessman of some kind—definitely not a hunter. Sam immediately regards his attire as suspicious—why would a businessman be out in the woods at night?

And then, of course, there's the fact that _light_ is shining out of his hand.

"What… What _are_ you?" Sam's voice comes out raspy and piteously tiny.

The man's grim face softens. "My name is Castiel, and I am an angel of the Lord."

 _Am I dreaming? I'm dreaming._

"No—this is no dream, Sam. In fact, I am trying to _prevent_ you from dreaming. Because _that_ is how people have been dying in these woods."

Sam flashes back to his half-sleep, moments before: the hideous flabby creature—all flesh and all-consuming. When he had looked into her eyes, she had been _hungry._

The young Winchester shivers. "Where's my dad?"

"He's looking for you," Castiel responds. "And Dean too. They're very worried."

Tears pierce Sam's eyes, and he rubs his hands over them frantically. "I want to go home," he manages to croak out.

"I know," says the man, and his voice has become more gentle. He places a tentative hand on Sam's shoulder, and Sam lets him—because he doesn't feel threatened by Castiel anymore. "I will guide you through the forest."

Sam nods and dries his eyes. But as soon as he does this, an overwhelming urge to yawn comes over him, and he can feel his vision swimming. His knees begin to buckle, and the man puts a hand on his shoulder to brace him.

"Sam?" The man's voice is firm but scared. "Wake up!"

The young Winchester shakes his head, trying to regain his senses. "Sorry," he mumbles, and his vision clears. "I just got…tired all of a sudden."

"You must stay awake," says Castiel, his brow furrowed, his tone like a chiding parent. "The batibat is trying to lull you to sleep so she can devour you."

Sam is impressed and inwardly grateful that this guy doesn't try to hide anything back from him because he's a kid.

"So it's _not_ a bat!" Sam exclaims.

"No," says Castiel patiently. "It's a batibat."

"Bat-i-bat," Sam repeats, enjoying the sound as he tries it out on his tongue, and they walk on.

After several minutes of walking and silence, Sam yawns again. Above him, leaves rustle and branches shift, enough sound effects to make a Halloween special on T.V.

 _Where's the great pumpkin, Charlie Brown?_

He walks quickly to keep pace with the grown-up, the _grown angel_ , Sam thinks. The sides of his long coat smack lightly into Sam's arms, keeping him moderately alert, but soon his legs get tired, and the youngest Winchester stumbles over a root in the dark.

A firm hand grabs his arm and doesn't let go.

Sam opens his mouth for a jaw-cracking yawn to escape and looks up at Castiel's face somewhat sheepishly. "Th-thanks."

Even though the glow from his palm has vanished, Sam can still detect the smile in his words: "I am here to keep you safe, Sam."

The young Winchester scrambles to keep up with Castiel, but his arm is so close to the man's arm, and the woods so oppressive and thick that Sam's hand seems to find its way into Castiel's hand. Castiel pauses for a moment, as if surprised, and then continues walking. For Sam, a rush of contentment floods through his veins, giving him hope, and crushing his fears. The sudden positive emotions almost make Sam break the contact, but he doesn't.

"You really _are_ an angel, aren't you?" Sam says quietly, full of awe.

There is a grunt and, Sam supposes, a nod in response. Then another rustle in some nearby bushes causes Sam to jump.

"Do not be afraid," comes Castiel's even voice, and the pressure on his hand increases incrementally.

Sam nods and tries to hide the quake from his voice. "Is—is it that _batty_ thing?"

"The batibat," says Castiel matter-of-factly, "is here, but it only appears when someone is asleep."

Sam swallows, knowing he won't like the answer to his next question, but asks anyway. "What do they _do_ to people?"

Without a gap, Castiel says, "They crush the life out of the sleeper."

Ice water runs through Sam's veins. He gulps again, shuffling to keep pace with the angel. "Why?"

Castiel places an elbow up to dodge a low-hanging branch. Beneath their feet, pine needles crunch. The darkness before them seems unending and impenetrable.

"Batibat are spirits of the forest. They dwell in the trees. When those trees get cut down, they will lash out at anything human to take revenge for destroying their homes."

Sam puts the pieces together. "Those stumps I saw…the piles of sticks…"

Castiel's voice is quiet. "The recent clear-cutting in this area has provoked their wrath."

Sam runs his hand along a passing tree trunk and sighs. "I feel bad for the batibats, Castiel."

"So do I, in a way," says the angel. "However, they are killing innocent people. Your father was right to come here and stop them."

"All but one of them," corrects Sam.

Castiel nods grimly. "All but one."

Sam thinks to himself: _It's like a twisted version of Ferngully._

Their walk continues in silence, calm yet cautious. Sam wouldn't be surprised if they had been walking for miles. There is the soft crunch of dirt and leaves under his feet, the feathery kiss of tree branches and bushes across his arms, and the warm pulse of Castiel's hand in his hand. Sam can feel his eyelids growing heavier—every tree looks the same, blending into the same grey-green haze in the dark.

"We're almost there," comes the angel's voice at his side, but he sounds far away.

"So….tired," the boy mumbles.

Sam knows he can't fall asleep. Castiel _told_ him not to, and Sam Winchester is not in the habit of disobeying the orders of an angel, but he can't help it. Sleep beckons him, as comfortable as a warm bath or fleece pajamas, as soothing as a mug of mint tea, as familiar as the backseat of the Impala, cruising down a stretch of deserted highway under a full moon.

"SAM!"

He is falling, falling, falling, but someone catches him around the waist and lowers him to the ground. He can feel the cold earth beneath him as hands lightly tap his face.

 _Wake up wake up_

But the words are muffled, as if he is listening to them from behind a thick wall. Sam is too content to settle into the darkness.

And then the weight settles on his chest.

At once, Sam can't breathe. He bucks and wheezes, shutting his eyes tight from the creature whose clawed hands are caressing his arms. A blind panic drives him to push the batibat away, but his arms are at his sides, like lead. Sam hears the choked gurgle escape his own lips, and although he is terrified, he opens his eyes—

A pure, white light streams into the forest, turning night into day for mere seconds before vanishing. Like lightning, Sam can almost taste the electricity in the air. There is a sharp _SNAP!_ At once, the pressure on his chest is gone, and he is coughing for air.

"Sam!"

"Sammy!"

Dad's voice, with Dean's right behind him, greet his ears seconds before firm hands are sitting him upright, thumping him on the back. Dean's flashlight beam sways back and forth, illuminating a small section of woods.

"Just breathe, Sam," says Dad.

The youngest Winchester sputters and wheezes into a fist until his breathing evens out.

"That's it, Sammy," comes Dean's voice. When Sam focuses on his older brother, Dean is pale, and his eyes are watery.

"I'm—I'm okay," Sam says with a cough. He feels the prickly warmth and musty scent of Dad's coat wrapped around him. John Winchester runs a hand through his youngest son's hair, messing it up. Sam usually hates it when his dad does that, but he doesn't mind it right now.

"Thought I told you to stay in the car," John says, his voice a low grumble.

Sam can tell that angry tone from a mile away, but he answers truthfully, "You and Dean were gone longer than you said you'd be. I got worried, so I—"

"Went and nearly got yourself killed," said John.

Sam's head droops down, defeated and in trouble. Sam hated being in trouble, which is why he didn't mess around very often. He prepared himself for a Dad lecture, followed by an equally harsh Dad punishment. Like waxing the Impala or scrubbing one of Uncle Bobby's outhouses from the inside—

"I'm just glad you're safe."

Then John wraps him into a protective hug, pulling Dean in as well until Sam complains of having the life crushed out of him again, to which John just chuckles and releases both of them. They walk back to the car with John on the lookout ahead, and Sam and Dean trailing behind him.

Dean nudges him and says quietly, "What was that bright light?"

Sam looks up at his big brother, questioning. Dean looks pale again, scared.

"We heard someone shout and ran to find you on the ground and that _thing_ was on top of you. Dad fired his shotgun to scare it off, but that flash of light _wasn't_ from his gun. There was something else…"

Sam swallows. When he speaks, his voice is hoarse. "It was an angel…"

Dean's eyes widen with awe for a fraction of a second before he cracks a grin and punches Sam on the shoulder. "Nice one, Sammy! An angel..." He scuffs his boots in the dirt. "And what was her name?"

"It was a _he_ ," says Sam emphatically. "And his name is…"

The younger Winchester pauses in his tracks. Like water running down his back, like sand sliding through his palms, the memory of the angel who helped save his life is disappearing. A meticulous journal-keeper, this frustrates young Sam for a minute, but then John is calling to his boys to hurry up.

By the time Sam and Dean reach the Impala and clamber in the backseat, Sam has no memory of what happened in the woods that night.

"Dean! Shotgun!" John barks behind the wheel.

"I wanna be back here with Sammy, if that's okay," Dean says, and places a hand on his younger brother's shoulders.

Sam's shivering has stopped. Warmed by John's big coat and comforted by his brother, Sam lets Dean buckle him up and sips at hot chocolate from a thermos. Then he closes his eyes and dreams of flying above a vast forest as dawn gradually paints details into the woods below.

TBC

 **A/N:** This one was heavy on the fluff, but I can't apologize! There is at least one more chapter after this, with some lovely Castiel hurt/comfort. Thanks so much for reading!


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